


things have changed for me (and that's okay)

by wanderlustnostalgia



Category: Saturday Night Live, Weekend Update (SNL)
Genre: Canon Gay Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, In-Laws, M/M, Meet the Family, Weddings, What Have I Done, lowkey cheesy, spot the references, this got freaking long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-24 07:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9711689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustnostalgia/pseuds/wanderlustnostalgia
Summary: A series of glimpses into the marriage of Seth and Stefon Meyers, through the eyes of everyone's favorite City Correspondent.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ...I apologize in advance.
> 
> I've tried for so long to write something good for this fandom and I think after about two years of dead ends I might've succeeded? Basically I set out to write something that took them seriously as characters while still keeping them as in-character as possible, and the result is this monstrosity which I think might hold the record for "longest published Sethon one-shot fic in existence", if not "longest Sethon one-shot fic in existence", period. I'm not sure whether I should be proud or horrified, but I'm gonna go with the latter until further notice.
> 
> ("Becca" in this fic refers to The Girl You Wish You Hadn't Started a Conversation With at a Party, who according to [Bobby Moynihan's Weekend Update theory](http://www.etonline.com/tv/154266_snl_bobby_moynihan_theory_about_the_weekend_update_guests_will_blow_your_mind) is Drunk Uncle and Aunt Linda's daughter and Stefon's younger sister. Yes, Stefon is a middle child in this fic. Yes, I kind of wish this was canon.)
> 
> Title taken from "That Green Gentleman (Things Have Changed)" by Panic! at the Disco.

**I. wedding**

Their real, _legal_ wedding takes place a month after the _SNL_ season 38 finale, which Seth will forever refer to as “The Day I Lost My Goddamn Mind” and Stefon will always know as “The Day Stefon’s Life Changed Because Seth Meyers Finally Decided to Stop Being a Fraidy Cat and Commit.”

(Deep down, Stefon knows Seth wouldn’t change a thing, and his whole mental-breakdown act is an attempt at preserving his supposed masculinity. Seth’s not fooling anyone, least of all Stefon. Stefon minored in psychology; he can read Seth like the back of Gayvid Lee Roth’s left pinky toe.)

Honestly, Stefon’s not sure what all the fuss is about. He would’ve been perfectly content with how things transpired on May 18, the-year-of-our-Lord 2013 (which is how Pope Been-a-Dick always says it, much to Stefon’s everlasting annoyance; who needs that many words?), but Seth wanted an actual wedding, and he’d looked so pleading and hopeful when he brought it up that Stefon immediately shut his trap and agreed to see to the planning. Who needs bitchy wedding planners when you know half the people in New York’s underground wedding industry anyway?

So he undertakes everything—decorations, entertainment, _food_ —and because he’s so incredibly efficient he has it all mapped out in less than two weeks. He’s already got DJ Baby Bok Choy and Small Out Boy lined up for the reception, and Black George Washington was gracious enough to reprise his role as officiant because he’s never actually married a couple who lasted longer than thirty minutes.  It’s all set in practically no time at all, allowing him enough time for marathon almost-wedding sex with his almost-husband and a visit to _*CLAP*_ , recently opened by Robert Clowney, Jr. and his business partner-slash-lover Welsh Pat Morita.

That, of course, leaves the dress.

Stefon doesn’t normally wear dresses, mainly because he doesn’t think they’re terribly practical and also because he’s not fond of showing his limbs. (He’s already lanky and awkward enough; he doesn’t need everyone to see how weirdly shaped his knees are, thanks.) But he feels he owes Seth _something_ like a normal wedding, and much as he loves Ed Hardy (the man has been a constant in a rather… _tumultuous_ life), Stefon does not think Seth would appreciate showing up at church in his finest You-Go-Boss or whatever only to see the future Mrs. Stefon Meyers looking anything but bridal in his usual shirt and skinny jeans.

Since bridal boutiques don’t exactly cater to people like Stefon, and Oscar Gay La Renta’s on lockdown in the Caymans until further notice after the Aerial Incident of 2010, he makes do with one he picked up from Slice, a nice little strapless number originally designed for MMA impersonator Ronda Lousy until she had her nervous breakdown.  It's kind of itchy, and he has to get it taken in a little, since he’s too skinny of a bitch to ever _dream_ of competing with Ronda’s curves, but the skirt is pretty and the bodice shows off his collarbone nicely and the _sparkles—so many sparkles—_ would put a human disco ball to _shame._

So of course, he’s feeling perfectly fine until the Day Of, when Platonic-Work-Friend-Amy finds him curled up in a ball in a back room of the chapel, hiding beneath the vanity mirror Jew-Paul had brought over as a wedding gift.  He’s not really sure what’s happening except he feels an awful lot like he’s going to throw up, and not in the good way.  More like the _I’m-on-live-TV-in-front-of-a-bunch-of-people-and-Seth-Meyers-is-sitting-next-to-me-oh-fuck_ kind of way.

“I can’t do this, Amy Poehler,” he mumbles, hiding beneath his hands.  God, he hopes he’s not smudging his makeup, or else he will literally jump out of the window and catch the next caravan to Addis Ababa because that would be _mortifying._

“Oh, don’t be silly, Stefon,” Amy says, crouching down beside him and placing a hand on his shoulder.  “Of course you can.  You’ve done it already, haven’t you?”

“No no no no _no,_ you don’t under _ _stand_._ ”  Stefon shakes his head.  “That was a _quickie._   Stefon didn’t have _time_ to freak out.”

“What is there to freak out about?  You’re marrying the love of your life!” Amy exclaims, radiating pure joy, before clearing her throat and adding, slightly menacingly, “You _do_ love him, _right._ ”

Stefon nods, hands still over his face.  Sometimes Amy Poehler can be downright scary.

“I’m sorry, what was that?  I didn’t hear you.”

“I love him,” he says quietly.  The pounding in his head starts to die down, but only slightly.

“Stefon, I’m gonna tell you something and I want you to repeat after me, okay?”  Stefon nods again, allowing Amy to take his hands and slide them down so they’re in his lap.  “I’m in love with Seth Meyers.”

“I’m in love with Seth Meyers,” he echoes, and the tight feeling in his chest begins to fade.  He can breathe easier now.

“Seth Meyers loves me,” Amy says.

Stefon wrinkles his nose and says, “No, he doesn’t.  He loves _me._   Not Amy Poehler.”

“Yes, I know he loves you,” Amy says, and _duh,_ they’re supposed to be repeating, but his brainwaves are kind of scrambled at the moment and he can’t process anything beyond Amy’s hands on his wrists and her eyes on his.  “Say it again.  Seth Meyers loves me.”

“Seth Meyers loves _me,_ ” Stefon says, with more conviction.  Because Seth Meyers _does_ love him, and if Seth Meyers didn’t love him he wouldn’t have run off in the middle of Update to interrupt what most likely would have been an ill-fated union with Anderson Cooper.

“I’m in love with Seth Meyers and Seth Meyers loves me.”

“ _I’m_ in love with Seth Meyers and Seth Meyers loves _me,_ ” Stefon declares, rising to his feet.  He paces the room, saying it to himself over and over like a mantra.  “ _I’m_ in love with Seth Meyers and _I’m_ gonna marry Seth Meyers and nobody can stop me because Seth Meyers loves _me._ ”

“That’s the spirit!” says Amy, throwing up two thumbs.  “See?  You can do this!”

“Yeah, I guess,” Stefon says, but he can feel the adrenaline starting to wear off and the panic coming back to him.  “I just— _Amy_ —”

“Do you need a hug?” Amy asks him, and he whimpers a little and she opens her arms and pulls him in.  He closes his eyes, lets himself wrap his arms around her and sink into the embrace.

She’s warm and smells like gardenias and hairspray and it’s kind of nice.  Soothing, in a way.

“Better?”

“Yes’m.”

“Good.  Now hurry up,” she says when they finally break apart.  “I have a feeling I’m gonna have a _very_ similar talk with Seth in a few minutes.”

“Thanks, Amy,” Stefon says, before he can lose his courage.  He owes a lot to her—she did, after all, give Seth the kick in the pants he needed to set this whole scheme in motion.

Amy smiles sweetly.  “Anytime.”

(He makes sure she catches the human bouquet when it comes time for the toss.  She grins at him and doesn’t even flinch when the “bouquet” in question sneezes flower petals in her face.)

 

**II. moving**

He moves into Seth’s apartment the week after their honeymoon. He’s been in Seth’s apartment before (spent more than a few nights there hiding from his ex, in fact, but let’s not go there), but he doesn’t remember the place being quite this… _dull._ Could the girlfriend (“ _ex-_ girlfriend,” he reminds himself, giving his cheek a hard pinch) have had anything to do with this?

“Your apartment is very boring, Seth Meyers,” he says point-blank. No sense beating around the bush; although passive-aggression is admittedly one of his favorite forms of warfare.  “We need to fix that.”

Seth shakes his head in the way normal people do when they know they’ve lost, but he’s got a smile on his face, and Stefon all but melts.  God _,_ that smile will be the death of him someday.  “I won’t argue with you,” he says.  “What’d you have in mind?”

 _Everything,_ obviously.

He brings in a large whiteboard he stole from Steve Purell’s hand-sanitizer factory offices and uncaps a bright pink Expo marker from his pocket, scrawling down his plans for the New-and-Improved-Seth-and-Stefon-Meyers-Dream-Apartment, or Sethon 1A for short.  Seth sits on the edge of the couch with his elbows propped up on his knees and listens attentively, asking questions when necessary (“Stefon, what’s a human mop?”  “It’s that thing of when a midget with long hair lies down on the floor and you pull them around by their feet to get rid of all the dirt”) and shooting down a fair amount of Stefon’s better ideas (“We are _not_ getting a firesnake pit, Stefon,”  “You’re such a _bore_ , Seth Meyers, do you even _know_ what fun is?”).  It’s frustrating at times, but Stefon reminds himself that marriage is compromise, marriage is sharing and sharing is caring, so he has to account for Seth’s needs in addition to his own.  That means no to the firesnake pit, but yes (surprisingly resonant, from Seth) to the Bowie mural. Seth’s a family man, though; of _course_ he’d understand how instrumental Stefon’s dad has been in the Life Story and Continual Evolution of Stefon Meyers, Formerly Stefon Zolesky.

After an hour or so of bickering, scribbling, and crossing-out (as well as a copious amount of sexual tension, because, well, it’s _Stefon_ ), they finally have something like a plan. Stefon’s a little disappointed about some of the concessions, but he understands.

More importantly, he thinks, as he’s drifting off that night in their shared (!) bed, Seth understands.

 

**III. parents**

The thing about Seth’s family is that they’re normal people. They are nice, normal people from New Hampshire, and they are so, so utterly different from Stefon’s family that it would be hilarious if it wasn’t so _sad._

The first thing Seth’s mom did when she met Stefon for the first time was look him up and down before dragging him to the dinner table and feeding him a plate of casserole because, quote, “You don’t have nearly enough meat on your bones, honey; Seth, you should’ve told me, I could’ve made more potato salad.” (Stefon _hates_ potato salad, but he figured it was best not to mention this.)

It was weird at first, being fed and petted and asked about his day and overall mothered over, and more than once he shot Seth a confused glance and mouthed “What is she doing?”, but he grew to really like Hillary, grew to love her jokes and her laugh and her vast collection of embarrassing anecdotes about Seth Meyers (“ _Mom,_ Stefon really doesn’t need to know about my Cyndi Lauper phase,”  “It’s okay, Seth; every boy has worn women’s clothing at some point in his life”).

Lawrence and Josh, too—they’re all _completely_ accepting, not just of the fact that Stefon now occupies the space in their lives where they expected a pretty and smart girl-next-door type to be, but of Stefon _himself._ Lawrence basically relies on Stefon’s expertise when it comes to all matters entrepreneurial and Josh is just glad to have someone else he can complain about Seth with, not that he has much to complain about in the first place.

They’re so, so wonderful, always making Stefon feel right at home, even before he and Seth were married.  It’s just—every so often, when he’s lying on Seth’s parents’ living room couch with his head in Seth’s lap while reruns of _Arrested Development_ play on the old TV, he questions whether or not he actually belongs there.  His parents weren’t like this.  Nobody in his family asked anyone about anyone’s day, or told any good jokes, or had any good stories.  Nobody really said anything to each other, at least from what he remembers.

He’s sitting at the Meyers’ kitchen table a few days after Christmas, with a stack of blueberry pancakes in front of him while Seth’s getting dressed upstairs.  Hillary walks in, still wearing the pajamas he helped Seth and Josh pick out for her because dear God, those boys are clueless when it comes to sleepwear.  “Good morning,” she says, sitting across from Stefon.  She’s tired but cheery, the way he supposes most mothers-in-law are those first few weeks.

Stefon murmurs vaguely in response.  He’s not really hungry, so he picks at his plate with his fork and studies the little bluebirds on the tablecloth. (207, last he checked, but he always recounts, just to be sure.)

“Something wrong?”

It’s freaky, how she cuts right to the chase, like Stefon’s innermost worries are a pair of shoes and she’s Bark Ruffalo looking for something to chew on. (“She’s kind of psychic,” Seth told him once, and he’d been skeptical at first, but now—well, let’s just say he’s never using his crystal ball again.)

“Just thinking,” he says with a shrug.

“I don’t know if I’d call ignoring our World-Famous Blueberry Pancakes ‘just thinking.’” It’s such a _mom_ thing to say that Stefon rolls his eyes despite the blush spreading across his cheeks _._ “What’s on your mind, Stefon?”

He debates over whether or not he should tell her for a good minute. On the one hand, he hates thinking about his family, much less talking about them, and he’d rather pretend he belongs to a normal group of blood-related people rather than the fucked-up trainwreck that shares his DNA…but on the other hand, this is Seth’s mom. He can tell her anything.

“I really like you guys,” he begins. “You’re sweet, like Seth. Seth’s sweet like...Crawla Deen’s dark chocolate cotton candy, and I like that.”

“That’s pretty sweet,” Hillary replies, biting off the end of a slice of bacon.

Stefon tries not to wince. (Vegetarianism be damned, he’s not going to let a little barbarism ruin his marriage.  He didn’t marry Seth for his eating habits.)  “You’re nothing like my family,” he says finally.

Hillary gets that _look_ on her face, the look of genuine concern most mothers have down to a science that Linda never seemed to be able to replicate.  “What do you mean? Your family—oh, God, they didn’t _hurt_ you, did they?”

“No, no, no, no,” Stefon says, with a vigorous shake of his head.  “No, they just…pretended I didn’t exist.”

“Oh my God, that’s even _worse,_ ” Hillary exclaims.  “Oh, Stef, honey, I’m so sorry.”

She sounds so _horrified_ that Stefon instantly feels terrible for even mentioning it and wants to wrap his arms around her and tell her it’ll be okay.  Which is ridiculous, because _he’s_ the one she feels sorry for.  Maybe that’s why he feels so weird about this whole thing to begin with—he hates feeling other people’s pity, because pity doesn’t fix anything.  It doesn’t change the circumstances, nor does it change the fact that despite all evidence to the contrary Stefon is, in fact, still a human being, albeit a very screwed-up human being with a tendency to do less-than-kosher things.

“No, it’s not your fault,” he says, not knowing what else to do.  “My family’s just—a _mess._ ”

Understatement of the fucking _century._ David would be proud, he’s sure.

“Well, you know you’re perfectly welcome here,” Hillary says, reaching across the table and placing her hand on his.  “If your family can’t see that you deserve their full and complete affection, then fuck ’em.  We’ll always be your family, Stefon, and if you ever need anything, just ask.  You have nothing to worry about here.”

Stefon smiles and murmurs, “Thanks, Mama Meyers,” because Hillary is so sweet and caring and he has no idea what he did to deserve such a wonderful mother-in-law—such wonderful in-laws, _period._

“Of course,” Hillary says warmly.

It’s at that exact moment that Seth comes downstairs and says, “Hey, honey,” pressing a kiss to the top of his husband’s head.

“Mm, took you long enough,” says Stefon, leaning his head back to nuzzle Seth’s chin.

Hillary laughs and says, “Easy kids, mom in the room,” but neither of them particularly care at that moment because, well, why should they?

 

**IV. rupert**

They settle into a routine.  Stefon used to _despise_ the idea of routine, but now, more than ever, he’s grateful for the consistency.

Stefon doesn’t have time to be sad when there are new clubs opening all the time, at an increasingly rapid rate (he did the math on his break at Twist and it’s something like every 3.1416 hours now, it’s _ridiculous_ ), and people are asking him to contribute his opinions to their books on queer theory and the role of primal instincts and “family values” in society and politics (he hasn’t written anything so comprehensive since grad school, so he doesn’t know why everyone’s coming to him all of a sudden), so he’s a very, very busy guy.

Seth is also a very busy guy. Even busier than usual, as it turns out, because he’s taking over _Late Night_ from Jimmy Fallon, which means faster writing sessions and more tapings.  He tries to tell this to Stefon, but Stefon doesn’t want to hear it, electing to smother him in kisses and celebratory sex rather than find out exactly what Seth’s new schedule will entail.  All that matters is that his husband’s finally getting the recognition he deserves, even if Stefon doesn’t always understand his sense of humor and even if the political talk at the dinner table can get a little—well, stale.  He’s happy for Seth.  He’s happy that Seth’s getting a show with his name on it and he’s happy that other people see Seth for who he is, his kindness and charisma and knack for calling bullshit when he sees it.

“You’re not worried?” Seth asks him one afternoon.  He’s sitting on the floor with his laptop out, wearing this cute little burgundy cardigan Stefon got him as a late-Christmas-slash-early-birthday present.  (It doesn’t do much for his sex appeal, but that’s okay; it makes him look more domestic and puppy-like.)

“Why would I be worried?” Stefon asks from the couch, peering down over his reading glasses at his husband.  Stupid question, but he’s going for nonchalant here.  “My husband’s gonna be the next Jimmy Fallon, but like, blue-eyed and bisexual and also, like, twenty times more fuckable.”

“Okay, first of all, please stop comparing me to Jimmy in terms of fuckability,” says Seth, looking disturbed. “Second of a—are you reading _Catcher in the Rye_?”

“What? Oh.” Stefon glances at the little book in his hand, which he’s been rereading lately because the therapist who moonlights as a cake-dancer at YUGE told him it might help him with some… _unresolved issues_. “Yeah, I’m at the part where he meets up with Luce. _To-tally_ gay, by the way. Like, there is no way in _hell_ any straight boy would be this obsessed with outing people.”

“Wait, wait, Stefon, back up. _You._ ”

“Yes’m.”

“Are reading _Catcher in the Rye._ ”

“Uh, it’s _THE Catcher in the Rye_ , actually, but yep.”

“…Why?”

Seth’s staring at him with his brow furrowed in bewilderment, and Stefon wants to roll his eyes, because is it really that hard to believe that he _reads_ sometimes?  He graduated from _Columbia_ , for God’s sake.  “…Be-cause it’s my favorite book?” he says slowly, like he’s talking to Skindsay Lohan coming down from a coke binge.  “And I haven’t read it in a while, and I thought it might be nice to revisit it?  Normal people do that sometimes, _right?_ ”

Seth shakes his head, smiling incredulously.  “Stefon Zolesky-Meyers, you are full of surprises.”

“All part of my charm.”

“Anything else I should know about?”

“Hmm, let’s see.” Stefon strokes his chin and pretends to rack his brain for some interesting anecdote.  He already knows exactly what he’s going to say.  “I broke up with a guy over this book.”

This catches Seth’s attention.  “Really?”

“Mm-hmm, yeah.” Stefon closes his eyes, his mind transporting him back to college and late-night conversations on dormitory rooftops.  “This guy, Rupert Danzig? _Tooooootal_ lit nerd.  Like, take your friend Bill Hader and times him by infinity, that’s how lit-nerdy this guy was.  _Super_ -hot, too, but I haven’t seen him in years and he’s probably bald now, so don’t get jealous.”

The pinched look on Seth’s face refuses to subside, which Stefon thinks is kind of hilarious, because of _course_ his little drama geek is still insecure after all these years, even though he has no reason to be.  “Anyway, we were up on the roof at midnight because our roommates were fucking in the dorm and we started talking about, like, really deep shit, like existential deep shit, and I was high on something but not super-high on something so I was probably stoned, and then we started talking about, like, our _families_. And so I said that my big brother was a screenwriter, kind of, and I was the bastard middle child, and my baby sister was in high school and she was smarter than any of us and she was gonna _go places._ ”  He smiles sadly at the thought of fourteen-year-old Becca, young and nerdy and unhindered by societal expectations and unfair gender stereotypes.  Now she’s the girl who goes on drunken rants about saving homeless prostitutes in Africa, all because Linda didn’t want an intellectual daughter.

“So what happened then?” Seth asks.

“What?  Oh, he looked at me all serious and he says to me—” (voice dropping an octave lower, in an impersonation of Rupert Danzig’s polished baritone)—“‘Wow, Stefon. You’re like the gay Holden Caulfield.’ And so of course _I_ was like, ‘What the fuck are you talking about, Holden Caulfield was _totally_ gay,’ and then he was like, ‘No, he wasn’t,’ and then I was like, ‘Yeah, he was,’ and then we just kinda looked at each other and then he gets all quiet and he says to me, ‘Maybe this isn’t going to work out,’ and then I said, ‘You think?’ and then we broke up.”

“That’s it?”

“Yup.”  Well, he’s exaggerating a little, but that’s okay.  It’s the gist of it that counts.  “Some things you just don’t see eye-to-eye on, Seth Meyers.”

“Huh,” says Seth, frowning.  “So if I think Holden Caulfield is straight, is that grounds for divorce?”

“Oh God, don’t talk that way, Seth Meyers,” Stefon says, feigning horror.  “I can’t believe you think Stefon would stoop so low, it would take a _lot_ more than that to make me angry. Besides, Rupert Danzig had other problems.”  Like being a know-it-all.  And cocky.  And closed-minded.  Come to think of it, Rupert Danzig was kind of a douchebag.

“I would hope so,” Seth says, chuckling.  “God. What kind of name is Rupert Danzig, anyway? He’s not gonna sue me for libel if I use it on the show, right?”

“Mm, no, go ahead. Stefon’s not stopping you,” Stefon replies.  He knows he’s slipping into third-person again, but he can’t help it—first person can be so _basic_ sometimes.  “He could probably use the ego-stroking.”

“Yeah, I mean it’s not every day your ex gets swooped off his feet by a fake news anchor.”

“Mm-hmm,” Stefon agrees, before rolling over and booping Seth on the nose.  “A very handsome, very smart, very  _sexy_ fake news anchor.”

“Gee, now whose ego are we stroking?” Seth says, looking up at Stefon with a grin.

“Just shut up and take the compliment,” Stefon replies, carding his fingers through Seth’s hair.  Seth sighs contentedly and closes his eyes, and Stefon hums a little, some song by this Romanian new wave band that he’s had stuck in his head for ages.  (He’s been meaning to play it for Seth sometime; Seth’s still not entirely convinced that Stefon’s capable of listening to _normal_ music.)

“You sure you’re gonna be alright?” Seth asks at length, and Stefon sighs.  He thinks Seth underestimates him sometimes.  Of course it’ll be hard.  Nobody said it wouldn’t be.  But this isn’t about just him anymore.  It’s about _them_ , and compromise, and Stefon being 110% behind his husband every step of the way, and he doesn’t know if Seth understands that yet, but he hopes he will.  It’ll be hard, and he’s not going to like it very much, but he’ll be okay.  They’ll be okay.

“Yeah,” he says.  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

 

**V. kids**

Around their first anniversary, they start floating around the idea of Stefon going back to Update.  Stefon’s not sure he wants to be around _strangers_ , even if Seth’s sitting next to him holding his hand and playing footsie under the desk, but at the same time he kind of misses having a captive audience, kind of misses being able to open the public’s eyes to the bizarre and spectacular world that is New York’s underground club scene.  New York’s so business and _boring_ all of the time; he just wants to help people loosen up a little and embrace their freak side, and well, falling in love on the show didn’t hurt either.

“I should tell people I’m pregnant,” Stefon says.  He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor with a bottle of neon pink nail polish, painting Seth’s toenails.  “They’d _loooove_ that, wouldn’t they, Sethy?”

“Honestly, they’d probably just take you seriously,” Seth points out.  He frowns thoughtfully and wriggles his toes.  “Can I move now?”

“No, because then you’ll smudge it, and that would be _bad,_ ” Stefon explains.  He knows Seth’s new to the whole mani-pedi thing, but things like this should really be common sense.  “Patience is a virtue, Seth Meyers.  My grandma taught me that.”

“If you say so.”

It’s quiet for a few minutes while Stefon works and Seth contemplates the ceiling.  Stefon likes the quiet sometimes.  He’s tried explaining to his friends at *Tauntaun noise* that there’s something to be said for lying on the couch with your husband in complete silence, but they just looked at him blankly because, well, screwheads just don’t get domestic life.

“You know,” Seth says, breaking the silence.  “I’ve been thinking about kids.”

“What, you mean like goats?” Stefon says, distracted.  “Tried it.  _V_ _ery_ high-maintenance.  Do _not_ recommend.”

“No,” says Seth.  “No, like _children,_ Stefon.  _Human_ children.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Stefon says.  “ _Children._   Right.”

He assumes Seth means thinking about _having_ kids.  He’d be lying if he said he hasn’t entertained the idea himself.  He already has a son, a two-year-old named Marco who came out of a drunken one-night stand with a former dominatrix named Suzie, but he only sees Marco once or twice every few months and so he considers himself a bit of an absentee parent, albeit unwillingly.  (Suzie doesn’t trust Marco in any of Stefon’s clubs, which Stefon thinks is kind of ridiculous, but then Suzie’s always been a little... _paranoid_.)

“Do you want any?” Seth asks.  “Kids, I mean.  It’s okay if you say no.”

Stefon is many things.  He’s a dancer, former figure skater, ex-writer, Weekend Update City Correspondent, recovering addict, dog mother, Middle Eastern history enthusiast—but he doesn’t consider himself a father.  Not really.  And yet—when he does visit Marco at Suzie’s, a makeshift bomb shelter in the upper lower east side of the Bronx, he gets this floaty, jumpy feeling in his chest.  It’s almost like the feeling he gets when he looks at Seth a certain way, a feeling that makes him smile so hard his cheeks hurt and his heart flutter with a sort of nervous excitement because—god, he’s just so _happy_ to see him.  He asked gambling addict Blackjack White what this meant once and the man had looked up from his chips, raised an eyebrow and said, “You need professional help,” but that was okay because Stefon thinks he gets it now.

That feeling, the one he gets when Marco grins up at him and runs into his arms; the feeling he gets when he picks up his curly-haired brown-eyed little monster and pulls faces at him, just to hear his giggle, the feeling he gets when he tousles his son’s hair and his son babbles “Papa _,_ ” because it’s the only word other than “no” and “Mama” he actually knows how to say—that feeling, he thinks, is pure joy.  It’s the only way he can describe it.  Pure, unadulterated joy.  You can’t get joy like that from pills and bottles.  Stefon’s tried and found out the hard way.

He re-caps the nail polish.  Smooths his hair down.  Places his hands over his mouth because _wow,_ this is a big step for them and maybe he isn’t such a freak after all, maybe he can actually be a normal-ish husband who raises normal-ish kids and does normal-ish things.

“ _Yes,_ ” he tells Seth.  “I do.”

There’s another quiet pause, but Stefon’s not sure he likes this one very much, because Seth’s eyes are wide and he’s staring at the ground, chewing at his bottom lip the way he does when he doesn’t know what to say.  It’s weird and wrong and he keeps expecting Seth to crack a joke or _something_ but...nothing.  Total silence.  It’s about the elephant in the room, and Seth doesn’t want to acknowledge it, but if they don’t...

“I can’t have your baby, Seth Meyers,” he says, and the tension in the room relaxes a bit.  “ _But_ ,” he continues, “I _can_ help you raise it—them.  Whatever.  I just—I want a family, Seth.  I want to chase little human tornados around our apartment and feed them with airplanes and I know that sounds like something out of New York’s hottest new club _ARRGHH_ but—but _whatever._ I want _this._  I want _us._ ”

There’s a tingling in his nose and his eyes feel wet—he’s crying, how about that—and it’s kind of embarrassing, but he really doesn’t care.  He wipes his eyes and looks up at Seth, doing his best impression of a begging puppy, waiting for Seth’s response.

Seth’s eyes are wide.  His mouth is slightly open, which Stefon can only take to mean shock because he doesn’t think the other possibility is really fitting given the context.  He can see the wheels turning in his husband’s head, searching for a response.

“Well,” Seth says finally.  “I guess that settles it, then.”

Stefon blinks, drying the last of his tears, before poking at Seth’s big toe with his finger.  He smirks.  “Be my baby daddy, Seth Meyers.”

Seth rolls his eyes and says, “Stefon,” and of course this makes Stefon burst out laughing because it’s so _them,_ and because he’s never been able to keep it together for the life of him.  He thinks some of that might be rubbing off on Seth, because Seth’s lips are beginning to twitch upward and there’s a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.  For a moment it’s like they’re on Update again, with Seth on the other side of the desk looking irritated but fond and Stefon biting his lip to hold back his laughter as the studio audience cheers him on.  Except this time, there’s no distance between them, no fear, no girlfriend, nothing standing in their way but the fact that Stefon’s on the floor and Seth’s on the couch.

Well, that’s an easy fix.

Stefon pushes himself up onto the couch and curls up beside Seth, fitting neatly into the empty space.  He taps the coffee table twice, and Bark and Frisbee come jingle-jangling into the room, hopping up onto Seth and Stefon's laps to complete the picture.

“Hi,” Stefon says, blinking up at his husband.

Seth chuckles and strokes Stefon’s hair, pushing the long bangs out of his eyes.  “Hey.”

**Author's Note:**

> Expect some kind of prequel to this involving Stefon's backstory because I can't help myself.


End file.
